


Halcyon

by redandgold



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Character Study, M/M, self indulgent TRASH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 18:21:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6968803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another Champions' League final, another team to beat, and always the same boy with the blonde hair next to him, like Peter Pan. Yes, like Peter Pan and his Lost Boys. Finding each other again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Halcyon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anemoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/gifts).



> *claws hands down face* why am i SO BAD AT WRITING  
> sorry this is self indulgent trash I haven't written for months?? bc of exams and I'm finding it so hard to get back into the groove  
> inferior to Shaz' beautiful co92 fic please go read 2kforever  
> Shaz this is 4 u i hope it satisfies your cravings for ryan giggs chest hair for a while (by which i mean 2 mins) 
> 
> also today scholesy got interviewed and he said 'i haven't spoken to ryan for a few days' bc it's totally unnatural to not speak to each other for _a few days_ god u clingy lil shits

**1988**

Manchester by sunrise is glorious. Ryan juggles the ball with his knees, passing it from side to side as the light spills over the edge of the Cliff onto the grass below his feet. He knows it's a bit early to be out and all, but he can see Coach Harrison's silhouette at the window looking down, and figures it's hard to tell a player off for playing.

Which is what he does, play; stroke the ball between his feet as he sways like a skier, a balance so perfect it's inimitable. A silky touch, a turn. It's as easy as falling, except the trick is knowing how not to fall. 

"Wicked," a voice calls from the sidelines. Ryan stumbles, surprised, and the ball spins out of play. "Sorry!" it continues sheepishly, and a gangly, curly-haired boy appears on the edge of Ryan's vision, running after the ball to retrieve it. Ryan watches him, struck by the way he runs (so different from his own), loud and brash and bulldozing.

The boy hits a pass back and Ryan collects on the inside of his foot, bringing it to a stop. "I'm Nicky," the boy says, jogging up to him. "Nicky Butt. I just started training with United."

"Ryan Wilson," says Ryan. Nicky scrunches his face up. 

"That's a terrible name," he scoffs. "The bloke who runs the pub on Dean Street is called Ryan Wilson, not a future international superstar."

Ryan laughs without even knowing why. "You think?" 

"Trust me, mate. You look right class. Now get a name to match." Nicky puffs his chest out. "People aren't gonna forget Butt anytime soon, are they?" 

"Are you always this much of an arse?" Ryan asks, lifting the ball into the air with the tip of his foot and knocking it over to Nicky, who heads it back to start a game of keepy uppy.

"You'll just have to find out, won't you?" he says, the mischievous schoolboy grin nailed down to a T. 

Ryan runs with the ball and makes a promise he will.

 

**1989**

"No way," Gary frowns.

"Yes way," Nicky says, perfectly serious.

"No  _ way _ ," Gary repeats, this time in a tone of semi-reverential awe. "Bryan Robson really eats six raw eggs for breakfast and lifts a thousand kilos at the gym?" 

"Yeah. Saw it myself. Cool, innit?" 

"So cool." Nicky can see stars swimming in Gary's eyes and tries not to giggle.

 

He gets a call at two in the morning. "For fuck's sake, Butty - "

 

**1992**

"They're going to be absolutely insufferable, aren't they." 

"That implies they aren't already insufferable." 

Phil glowers at Paul. "That's my brother." 

"Exactly." Paul raises an eyebrow. "Runs in the family." 

Phil swats at him. Paul expertly dodges the blow and grins like he knows how much of a twat he is. 

They watch from the stands as the red shirts below lift the youth cup, and Phil's chest feels funny, as if it's suddenly been drained and emptied. Maybe they'll win next year and maybe they won't. He turns to glance at Paul, who's staring at him intently. 

"Wouldn't you rather be there?" Phil says, tilting his head. 

"Nah," says Paul. "Not if you aren't." 

And he grins again as if he doesn't mean it, like the sort of rubbish joke Paul would pull. But the emptiness in Phil's chest fills up anyway.

 

**1996**

"Eh, Treacle," says Ryan as he walks by the dressing room. "Tell us about that goal against Wimbledon again, will you? I don't think I heard you the first two hundred times." 

David throws his shoe at him. Given the fact that Ryan carpools home with him and already uses his own cleats to fuck up the leather seats, it is an action he comes to regret. 

 

**1997**

"Mate."

"Mate."

"I'm bored."

"Did we wiretap Gaz and Becks today?"

"Yeah, twice." 

"Damn." 

"Here's an idea." 

"What?" 

"Y'know that kettle of hot water we have in the kitchen?" 

"Yeah?" 

"How funny would it be bringing it to the dressing room, waiting for someone absolutely bollocko and giving their arse a bit?"

" _ Mate. _ "

"You don't have to, you chicken." 

"Who said I wasn't going to? That's  _ brilliant _ , that is." 

As it turns out, it's not so much brilliant as frightening when the person in question is Peter Schmeichel and the area in question turns out to be rather more sensitive. Nicky would have killed Paul had he not been legging it around the Cliff trying not to get killed by a demented Dane. Paul's too busy pissing himself laughing to care either way.

 

**2000**

_ Romania _ . The word stings his lips. He pulls at his shirt and wishes he could drown in the white-now-grey, scratched and beaten (and  _ beaten _ ). The yellow-clad players are wheeling away, arms in the air, could've been them. Should've. He buries his face in the fabric, hoping that his brother will never have to see the tears. No Schmeichel to save him now. 

There's the light touch of an arm and the pat on his head. He looks up to see David, his own eyes red-rimmed, tangling his fingers in Phil's hair. 

Neither of them say anything. Phil knows what David's trying to tell him, the shadows of France reflected in his face. He knows better than anyone the name calling and effigy burning and the bitterness that will last for an age in every Englishman's heart. And this time he doubts there will be a treble at the end of the road.

_ Phil _ , mouths David, or perhaps he's said the word, though Phil doesn't hear it.  _ Phil.  _

He wraps his arm around David's back, taking comfort in the warmth, pulling him close. It was all there was to be had.

 

**2002**

"Eh, Neville." 

Both of them look up. Ryan rolls his eyes. "The lesser one." 

Gary looks back down. Phil frowns. 

"Why am I the lesser one?" 

Ryan pats him on the head. "Because you're the baby. Now, I need you. Are you gonna come and help me out or not?" 

Phil sticks his tongue out at Gary before following Ryan. It's probably the first time someone's picked him over his brother for Something Important, although he's not going to thinking about that too much.

They head over to Ryan's room and Phil flops onto his bed expectantly. "Right, what did you need me for?" 

Ryan tosses a stack of paper at Phil, who catches it and feels his heart sink like Arsenal's title bid in February. (If he can't be Gary, at least he can banter like him.) 

"Fan mail," says Ryan succinctly. "It's not like you have a lot of your own to do." 

  
  


**2003**

It takes five weeks for him to pick up the phone. 

He looks at the scrap of paper in his hand, crumpled and smoothed out any number of times,  _ +34  _ scrawled hastily in loopy blue pen. The buttons are oddly heavy and the handset is oddly light. 

"H'lo?" 

The Cockney accent still grates on his ears. He breathes.

 

**2006**

"No way," Phil frowns.

"Yes way," Nicky says, perfectly serious.

"No  _ way _ ," Phil repeats, this time in a tone of semi-reverential awe. "Jellyfish are really just skinny octopuses?" 

"Yeah. Saw it myself. Cool, innit?" 

"So cool." Nicky can see stars swimming in Phil's eyes and tries not to giggle.

 

He gets a call at two in the morning. "For fuck's sake, Butty, I'm  _ twenty nine _ \- "

  
  


**2008**

Nicky gets the invitation the day before and it's only out of politeness that he tries not to say 'about damn time'. Then he remembers it's Becks, and it's not like he ever cared about Becks's feelings, so he says it anyway.

Becks laughs. "You ingrate." 

"I'm always ungrateful. You forget that I have no hair." 

"How could I forget? I almost put you on a golf tee once." 

Nicky grins. "David Beckham, international supertwat." He can feel Becks grinning, too, as he says goodbye and see you tomorrow. Another Champions' League final, another team to beat, and always the same boy with the blonde hair next to him, like Peter Pan. Yes, like Peter Pan and his Lost Boys. Finding each other again. 

 

**2010**

"Never knew you could kiss so well," Gary smirks. 

Scholesy kicks his legs where they dangle off the bench and mumbles, "fuck off." He leans into the hug anyway.

 

**2011**

"Thanks for coming."

David looks up from his socks at the familiar ginger mop, slightly faded but no less vivid. It's been nine and a half years, and David marvels that he can still tell what the flick of his tongue means.

"You know I would've." He tilts his head, wondering why Paul would ever say something he didn't have to. Paul shuffles his feet.

"He didn't," he says. 

David leans back, inhales sharply, like he's just been slapped. Somehow he was expecting that and it hurt even more. Paul moves to pat him on the shoulder, thinks the better of it, and pulls up his socks instead.

As they form the guard of honour and listen to the Stone Roses, David leans forward slightly to glance at Paul. He knows that look, the bright, burning eyes Gary gave him nine and a half years ago.

Paul catches him looking and turns red.

"I'm glad it's you," David whispers, bringing a hand to touch the crest over his heart.

 

**2013**

They're sitting in the dressing room, just the two of them. A bottle of champagne drips onto the floor and Paul, instinctively, reached down to set it straight again. 

"And this time you're not being a lying knob?" Ryan asks, teasing. 

"No more lying. Just knob." Paul grins and tugs at the hem of his shirt, almost like he doesn't want to take it off. It's the same small gesture Sir Alex made when he held his tie this morning. 

Ryan exhales and leans back where he's sitting, running his hand over the edge of the familiar wooden bench. 

"Look at us," he says. 

Paul looks, and Ryan understands. 

 

**2014**

"Giggsy." 

"Gaz?"

"Yeah, it's me. Listen, I think we should buy that football club." 

Ryan stops chewing and checks the date just to make sure that it isn't April 1.

"I thought Butty was supposed to be the joker, not you." 

"Entirely serious. Remember when we were talking about it on the train?"

Ryan frowns and tries to remember whether it was them talking or Gaz talking and him staring aimlessly out of the window. "Er. Kinda?" 

"Yeah, we should totally do it. I'm thinking Salford City." 

If Gaz were here in person Ryan would have called Scholesy over just to give him a good blast of Judgmental Stare. "On the Gary Neville is Bonkers scale, this ranks pretty highly." 

Gary's infectious cackle rings down the line and Ryan starts laughing too. "Fab. I'll tell the rest about it. Hopefully they'll be thrilled."

"Cool, mate. As long as we don't get sucked into a TV show or something. Can you imagine what good viewing that'd be? Class of '92, out of the Premier League and into grassroots football. Watch the stars get down and dirty." 

There's a silence on the other end of the phone. It suddenly occurs to Ryan what a terrible mistake he's made. "Gaz I was joking don't - Gaz - you busy little fuck - " 

"See you soon, Giggsy," Gary says in a sing-song voice and hangs up. Ryan buries his face in his hands and makes a note to ask Nicky what Hong Kong is like.

 

**2015**

He's halfway through packing when he hears the knock on the door. He'd called him, of course, the first time he was offered the job, but he didn't quite expect Gary to come down in person, busy schedule and all.

Gary leans against the doorframe and watches him fold his shirts, and it's impossible to know what he's thinking. His eyes flick to the chair in the corner, where Phil's put two Spanish textbooks that he's already bought.

"You should've been a boy scout," he says, finally breaking the silence. "Always prepared." 

Phil snorts. "If I'm a boy scout you're the scout master, or whatever they're called. You'd have gone and bought a Spanish library and hired a teacher even before you got there. And probably have been annoyingly good and learn the textbooks back to back while I'm stuck at the first page." 

"Lucky we don't have to find out, then," Gary laughs. "I'd hate to show you up as usual." 

"No, you wouldn't," Phil says, suddenly feeling twenty-seven again. The older ones are the ones supposed to leave. Some people hate being in their sibling's shadows, but Phil always felt vulnerable without it.

"Got your tickets?" Gary asks.

"Yeah, mum." Phil resists the urge to roll his eyes and pats his pocket. "Everything's sorted. Someone'll meet me at the airport."

"Accommodation and all that?" 

"Club's found me a place. I checked with Becks - " 

It's only when he says this that he realises these questions have been asked before. This isn't his first time leaving and this isn't Gary's first time letting go. Gary's head dips slightly before he tilts it up again and crosses the room.

"Here, let me do that."

Gary takes the last shirt from Phil's hands and folds it carefully, patting it down and belting the strap over it before snapping the luggage shut.

"You can drive to the airport yourself," he jokes, but Phil's watched the brown eyes for more than thirty years, and he knows what he's supposed to hear, just the first two words. 

"I can," he says, giving Gary a brief nod and the ghost of a smile. Their shoulders brush as he leaves.

 

**2016**

It's getting late, and it's just the two of them left on the training ground. Old friends. Old times. If he squints he can see four more silhouettes, lazy in the dying light. 

The one that's here jogs towards him, less loud and brash but somehow still bulldozing. He looks up and passes the ball to Ryan, who collects it easily on the inside of his foot. The training jacket feel light on his shoulders. 'NB' emblazoned like he never left. 

"Butty?"

"Yeah?"

Ryan looks at the mischievous schoolboy grin that turns to face him and grins back himself. He's never understood Gaz and why he can't just say straight how he feels. Nicky's here, Nicky's his, and shouting it to the world is as easy as running. 

"I'm glad you came back." 

Nicky slips his arm over Ryan's shoulder and holds him close. It's as easy as falling. "Me too," he says, looking out over the river where the buildings ripple lazily. Manchester by moonlight is beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> all dates are accurate bc I am an obsessed nerd and know this shit by heart  
> PSchmeich kettle / Giggsy's boots on Becks's car stories r all tru  
> Becks rely was the first to comfort Phil after Romania and [it was so sad](http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/archive/02071/Phil-Neville_2071209c.jpg)  
> There's a DVD extra on Life of Ryan where Phil and Giggsy talk about fan mail and it was hilarious and I love them??????? i lov them  
> thanks for reading <3


End file.
